


sadder day

by halfaday (ayasegawoah)



Series: (the darkest shades in you) [2]
Category: SF9 (Band)
Genre: 200126 edit: finally correcting chanhee's job in the note, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, read the beginning note before reading, there were more tags but i messed up and they got deleted so like, this is a cops au part 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-28
Updated: 2019-09-28
Packaged: 2020-10-29 23:37:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20804861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ayasegawoah/pseuds/halfaday
Summary: Sometimes, it's just a bit too much.





	sadder day

**Author's Note:**

> this is a follow-up to inappropriate; although this piece happens much later in the au, so you don't really have to read it if you don't want to!! all you need to know is seokwoo is a cop and chanhee a medical examiner.  
little tw: there's a brief, kind of graphic, description of a young dead body, + thus some ments of death.

_ 4:22 _ glows on the clock when Seokwoo opens one eye to look at it. He lets out a sigh, long, tired, and burrows his face back in his pillow, hugging it a little tighter. 

Water has been running in the pipes for a while now, indicating that Chanhee is showering, but Seokwoo has no idea how long he has been in there. He heard him open the bathroom door, but he doesn't know when exactly. He'd started counting the seconds as soon as the _ beep _ of the front door had woken him, but as always, had given up before he'd even reached two minutes, mind too hazy to attempt counting over one hundred. Now he's lost the count, and doesn't know how long he'll have to wait until Chanhee joins him.

He usually doesn't have to wait a long time: just enough for Chanhee to wash off the scent of the lab, or the crime scene he was at; just enough for him to get ready for bed, and file his day away, in a corner of his mind he keeps for himself, or for later, when it's quiet and he thinks Seokwoo ought to know. Before, sometimes, he used to dine, hair still damp from his shower, eating whatever Seokwoo, or himself, had made the night before, but it's a rarity now. Chanhee says it's because he likes eating out better after an unscheduled event and late-night shifts, but Seokwoo sees through his words, and knows he feels guilty about all the times Seokwoo, saddened by the lonely _ clings _ of his fork against his plate, had risen from bed, and joined him in the kitchen, blanket wrapped around his body.

'It's a bother for you,' he'd muttered one night, curled up against Seokwoo, his head on his chest and their hands linked, breath still smelling just a bit like the curry of the restaurant a few blocks away, 'I don't want to bother you.'

As if Seokwoo minded — but Chanhee's decision was taken, justified by the idea that he loved Seokwoo and that, even if Seokwoo woke every time he came home, he wouldn't have to come out of bed just for him. Seokwoo doesn't really miss it: their apartment gets awfully cold at night, and it is only a few meals they cannot spend together — for one late-night meal, he has eighteen lunches and one or two dates planned with him. And there is an advantage, one that cannot be overlooked: without these dinners, Chanhee is by his side only a few minutes after getting home.

He does have, from time to time, the fleeting thought that he doesn't deserve this treatment, has done nothing for Chanhee to act this way; but it's something Chanhee doesn't want to hear about, something he kisses off his lips after mumbling a quiet _ shut up, _ something that's quickly forgotten when Chanhee makes him feel like the center of the universe. It's only a passing thought, one that goes away when Chanhee looks at him and smiles, one that disappears when the mattress dips under his weight, and the barest touch of his lips grazes Seokwoo's shoulder blade.

'You up?'

Seokwoo groans affirmatively, and is graced with a second kiss, longer, sweeter. He sighs, this time of happiness, and lifts his arm, allowing Chanhee to snuggle up to him. He still smells of the lab; faint scent of chemicals stuck in his hair, but Seokwoo has gotten used to it by now, inhales the peach smell that tries to cover it as Chanhee buries his face in the crook of his neck.

'How was today?' he mumbles, articulating his question as best as he can in his sleepy state.

Chanhee has three answers, ones that take on different wordings but that Seokwoo can recognise and understand no matter what. There's _ fine, _ which is sincere, accompanied by a sigh of relief as Seokwoo strokes his back; then _ not quite good, _said with difficulty, followed by silence as Chanhee tries to find a way to word his feelings, tries to articulate what's weighing him down; and then there's nothing. Something that, at first, Seokwoo interpreted as tiredness, until Chanhee had hugged him tighter, until Seokwoo had realised he was shaking, until Chanhee had started sobbing, clinging to him like he was the only thing that kept him sane.

Tonight Chanhee squeezes his waist and takes in a deep breath, silent, and Seokwoo doesn't need more to _ know. _ He presses him against his chest, and lets him know in patterns and tender caresses on his back that he's here, that he's willing to wait and listen, willing to just stay like this, without saying a single word, if it fits Chanhee better.

And for a while they do not speak, remain simply hugging, Chanhee unable to word his thoughts, holding Seokwoo as if he were about to fall apart; Seokwoo keeping all of his broken pieces together. They do not speak, and simply communicate the barest of emotions — they take all the time Chanhee needs, until he finally opens his mouth:

'It was a kid,' he whispers, and somehow his words echo against every wall, every surface of the apartment. 'A twelve year old kid.'

Seokwoo doesn't say anything, knowing he's nowhere near done.

'Beaten to death. Legs burnt. Sternum completely obliterated. Collapsed lung would have killed him if it weren't for the rabbit punch he received.' A pause. 'He was blond. Bright blue eyes. Lifeless. He had a cut on his lips, right in the middle of them. Both lips. And every fucking finger of his was broken. Every one. Same for the toes. That takes some dedication, you know that?'

There's a quiver to his voice, mirrored by his shaky hands, and Seokwoo hugs him tighter, keeps his eyes open so that he does not picture what Chanhee is describing.

'He was loved. Cared for. Well-fed. Not a single problem with him. He was loved. So, so loved. His father wouldn't stop crying.'

And then, finally, his voice breaks; and he inhales, takes in big gulps of air.

‘Let it out,' Seokwoo whispers, 'let it out if you need to.'

But Chanhee doesn't, only hugs him tighter, says that he's fine, he's fine, he just needs time.

'Baby,' Seokwoo murmurs, 'you're not fine.'

And Chanhee lets out a nervous laugh; weak, broken. 

'I know,' he says, 'I know.' Another nervous chuckle, accompanied by hands that grip Seokwoo's shoulders. 'I know. But I can't cry. It won't get out. It won't-'

He doesn't finish his sentence, suffocated by his misery, unable to do anything else than chuckle, again and again, the sound so desperate Seokwoo could almost swear he’s imagining it. He laughs, and laughs, then stops, quietly mutters, repeats that this boy was loved, why, this is a sick world. He struggles to breathe, and lets out a wail when Seokwoo hugs him tighter, when Seokwoo slides a hand under his tee-shirt and traces circles, squares, patterns on his back to soothe him, to distract him from his pain.

'I'm not fine,' he whispers against Seokwoo's neck, and Seokwoo fancies he can feel a certain wetness on his skin. 'I'm not fine.'

He sniffles, and clings to Seokwoo like a dying man to his last breath, like misery and death cling to the both of them as soon as they step into work — he sniffles, and lets out a sob, a single, broken sob.

Seokwoo hugs him — can only do that, powerless, unable to find what to say. There are no right words, he knows that, has been taught this at the academy, has learnt it with his first body; but still he wishes there were, he wishes there were words that could soothe Chanhee. Words that could erase the evil they both see every day, the one they fight and try so hard to condemn, the evil that seeps through each and every crack, and breaks everything, no matter how long it takes, no matter the scope of its seed. He wishes there were something, that made all of it better, that simply made them forget — but forgetting victims, in a way, is forgetting the reason they do their jobs; is forgetting why, when the sun rises, they overlook their pain and go back to work. The evil that disgusts Seokwoo, that disgusts Chanhee, the one that hurts the both of them, is a foe that powers them — if they do not fight it, who will?

Chanhee lets out a small whine as Seokwoo kisses the crown of his head, sighs and sighs and sighs as he tries to calm himself down — Seokwoo nuzzles his hair, inhales its scent, the weight of his head on Chanhee's a reminder that he's not alone.

'I'm here,' he whispers, 'I'm here, I'm here.'

And Chanhee nods, sniffles as Seokwoo whispers the same words over and over again. He listens, and lets Seokwoo's voice lull him into numbness, his grip loosening on his shoulders, his breathing becoming slightly more even. It takes a while — minutes; perhaps five, ten, Seokwoo doesn't know, has no desire to look at the clock to have an idea — but he eventually speaks again, voice just a tiny bit croaky:

'It's hard,' he mutters, then clears his throat. 'It's really fucking hard.'

Seokwoo kisses the crown of his head again, rubs his upper back tenderly. _ I know, _ he says with his entire body, _ I know, and I am here. _

'I do this job because I like it. And I do, as fucking odd as it sounds. But fuck- Seokwoo-'

Seokwoo's hand on his nape, tracing a line then a shape, soothing him down, assuring him he's there, he's here, he's with him. Chanhee burrows deeper into his arms, removes his hands from his shoulders to travel his back. His breaths are loud, warm puffs of air against Seokwoo's skin, and Seokwoo counts them, traces a new shape at each new inhalation, at each new exhalation. He listens, and feels, and slows his rhythm down as Chanhee relaxes.

'It's so hard today.' Chanhee's hands stroke his shoulder blades. 'So hard.'

He remains quiet then, unable to say more, thinking and thinking, and Seokwoo lets him, does not break the silence. He waits, and simply remains here, for Chanhee, for his sanity; because Chanhee needs him like air, because he's the only way for him to find peace of mind.

He waits, and registers the hands that glide down his spine, focuses on the shapeless and mindless things they trace on his skin. Circle, triangle, and then many things he cannot make out — and then the shapes are gone, become simple lines as Chanhee's hands follow his curves, outline them and turn them into paths. They travel down his lower back and delineate the small scar there, travel back up to give its older, larger sibling the same amount of attention. They trace, and shape, and caress every inch of Seokwoo's skin, as if tasked to remember every flawed and satisfying bit, as if they need it — they yearn to create a safe place, where they hope they can forget the entire world, where nothing else but them would be tangible. 

No such place exists, they both know that. Seokwoo's embrace is lacking, cannot protect the both of them from the evil that lurks in every corner of the world. The perfect shelter Chanhee is looking for is a wish that cannot be granted, will never be more than a desire. Seokwoo, simple Seokwoo, mere speck of dust in a world of crime, can only offer him a place by his side, in his arms, away from the job, and where Chanhee could share his pain; an antre that does not fully protect them from the storm raging outside, the window of a comfortable home that cannot be entirely closed. Together, in this world — they are bound to get hurt, to see the skies crack above them.

But they are warm; living beings intertwined and shouldering each other, whoever is stronger picking up the weaker one and carrying him to safety when rain starts to fall, tending to his wounds when he is hurt — both of them looking after each other, and never letting one another down. The storm that roars outside of the antre is ferocious, the home they are in is cold; but Chanhee's presence soothes Seokwoo and warms him up, and he doesn't mind being closer to lightning and heavy rain to avoid him being cold and wet, does not mind letting go of the blanket around his shoulders if it has the cold clinging to Chanhee's body disappear. He does not mind, rain tapping lightly on his foot every two seconds, cold hovering over him instead: Chanhee is there and holds his hand, smiles — and pulls him closer, into a narrow space just out of reach from the tempest outside, into his cocoon of warmth. He sacrifices himself for Seokwoo, just like Seokwoo overlooks things to protect him. And it is oh-so far from perfect, sometimes a mess and what seems to be an endless unlit tunnel; but together they glow, just enough to see the outlines of the walls and traps around them, and always catch and heal one another when their light proves to be too feeble for their surroundings.

It is nowhere near perfect, has them stumbling around here and there: a hug from Seokwoo can never erase Chanhee's pain, the kisses he lays on top of his head can never take away the horrors he's seen and experienced. But Chanhee's hands settle on the small of his back, and his breathing becomes even — and later, as the sun rises, at an hour Seokwoo does not look for, as Chanhee buttons the sleeves of his shirt in the kitchen, exhausted and still scarred; Seokwoo leans down and pecks him on the cheekbone, remains close and holds him in his arms, fragile companion whose wings have been hurt; whispering everything he somehow could not word the night before. He speaks, and tries his very best — and Chanhee's lips find his, and confess thanks and love to him; accept his best and cherish it. They briefly forget about the cracks in skies, and feel the sun again.

And the tunnel does not exist anymore.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm sorry chanhee seems to always be crying in this au if i add another piece to it i'll make sure he's happy in it


End file.
